


Everybody's Bruising

by perfectlystill



Category: Glee
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e06 Mash Off, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: Because Brittany always knows when something is wrong, and she knows Santana, she knows that this is the really, truly wrong thing with Santana right now: Santana worries that Finn is right.Takes place during 3.06, Mash-Off.





	Everybody's Bruising

Brittany is good at knowing when something is wrong. 

She doesn't mean to brag, but, okay, maybe she means to brag a little bit. Because she can tell when her mom is in a bad mood by the way she slams the kitchen cabinets, or when her dad has lost something by the shuffle of his feet, or when Rachel thinks Brittany is stupid by the flair of her nostrils. Which is wrong because 1. Brittany is not stupid, and 2. It is mean for Rachel to even think she is when Rachel can't figure out how to roll her R's in Spanish class, and 3. Rachel's the one who feels out of sorts, even though she's insulting Brittany right to her face. 

Whatever.

That's not the point.

The point is that something is wrong.

And she knows because Santana isn't in class. 

Usually Brittany gets to English first, just because she doesn't stop by her locker after Biology. But Santana always shows up a few seconds before the bell rings, sliding into the seat next to Brittany with a small smile Brittany knows is just for her. It's nice and warm and helps Brittany get through the period because, like Rachel, Mrs. Beldso thinks Brittany is stupid. She likes to call on Brittany when her hand isn't raised, even if someone else's is, and it's the worst because a lot of the time Brittany has an answer she thinks is good. Mrs. Beldso never does.

Santana's not here today, but Brittany drove her to school.

Something crackles in her stomach and at the back of her throat, and she knows Santana would never skip class, because she cares about her education, because she needs to be here to attend cheerios practice and glee club after school, because she'd never leave Brittany to face Mrs. Beldso's raised eyebrows and condescending head tilt alone. 

Brittany waits five minutes, eyeing the clock and feeling the black hole in her stomach expand with every tick of the second hand.

Then, her own hand shoots up in the air and she blurts: "I need to pee." 

"Brittany," Mrs. Beldso sighs. "That's what the passing period is for."

Brittany does not point out that the passing period is for passing from one class to another, actually, it's right there in the name. Instead, she offers: "I didn't have to pee then."

There's a moment where Mrs. Beldso fidgets with her marker. "Fine. Take the hall pass."

"Thank you." Brittany smiles the widest smile she can muster, grabbing the laminated piece of paper from its perch by the door. Her entire body screams that she has to find Santana, a surge of adrenaline she imagines shooting through her veins like the shots she had to get before freshman year. 

She almost runs to her locker, pulling out her phone to make sure Santana didn't get sick and send her a message from the nurse's office. 

She didn't. 

There are no new messages. 

Brittany's knees wobble, and she inhales, sharp, feels the breath stabbing against her ribs. 

She checks the choir room first, but nothing, and then the girls' bathroom right by it, and with each place she looks and doesn't find Santana, the pit in her stomach grows cavernous and hungry. Brittany is afraid it's going to consume her, and then she'll be _poof_ , and she'll never find Santana. She wipes her sweaty palms against her skirt and pushes open the door to the girls' room at the other end of the school, and she can feel it before she hears the little gasp Santana lets out. 

"San?" she calls. 

A sniffle. Brittany feels a calming wave of relief.

"Santana," she repeats.

"Is anyone here?" Santana asks. 

Brittany frowns, quickly scanning the stalls for feet, but there are none, not even Santana's. "No. No one but us."

She watches Santana's sneakers hit the tile, so white against the yellowing floor. "I'm sorry," Santana says, small. 

"Santana, let me in, please." 

The stall opens to Santana with smudged mascara, tear-stains wavy on her cheeks, and her binder pressed so tightly against her chest her fingertips are almost white. Brittany rushes forward, collects Santana into her arms, cheerio binder between them and all, and rubs soothing circles into her back. 

Brittany always knows when something is wrong, but she's even better at reading Santana's moods, especially when they're touching. When Santana's back stays rigid under her touch, when her breathing vibrates warm against Brittany's neck, a staccato that's on the wrong side of ragged, Brittany knows that Santana's hurt more than she's angry. She's the 10 on the scale the doctor shows you at the office to rate your pain: frowning, red, tears, worst pain imaginable.

Brittany hates whatever made her feel this way. 

"What happened?" she whispers, moving a hand up to cradle Santana's head, wishing her hair wasn't in a ponytail, that she could run her fingers through it and massage her scalp. She wants to be one of those nifty scalp massager things her dad bought her mom, because it makes her feel tingly all over, and she wants to make Santana feel tingly all over. 

Santana hiccups and shakes her head. 

"It's just us," Brittany reminds her, pulling back to catch Santana's eye and wipe at the tears drying against her skin. 

"Finn knows." Santana's voice cracks on his name, and rage colors her words despite the droopy sadness in her eyes. 

"Knows?" Brittany asks. The word feels foreign in her mouth. Because people think Brittany is dumb, but like, Finn is really, really dumb. She quirks her head to the side, cannot imagine what it is that Finn could possibly know. 

"About me," Santana manages, so quiet Brittany almost doesn't hear it. But she thinks she would hear it even if Santana hadn't said anything at all, because her face crumbles and heat radiates from her cheeks like a blush. The fear in her eyes reminds Brittany of the Santana of last year, when she was too much fear and too much shame, instead of realizing how she was, and always will be, made up of 100% awesome.

"Oh." The hole in Brittany's stomach opens up again. 

"He said it." Santana swipes at her nose, grimaces at her hand and pulls away, grabbing toilet paper to wipe it off on. "He said it so loud in the hallway. In front of _everyone_ , even that awful little elf who's squatting at your house."

"I'm so sorry, honey." 

Santana's fist clenches around the toilet paper. "And he said I'm a coward."

She looks up at Brittany, imploring, tears welling up in her eyes again. She swallows, her mouth pressing into a thin line, swallowing around itself so it looks like she almost doesn't have lips. 

She's asking a question. 

Because Brittany always knows when something is wrong, and she knows Santana, she knows that this is the really, truly wrong thing with Santana right now: Santana worries that Finn is right. 

Brittany takes a few steps forward, grabbing Santana's hand, prying the tissue from it and lacing their fingers together. "Finn's entire body flinches when someone runs toward him on the football field."

Santana's jaw loosens a little, and Brittany squeezes her hand. 

"What could he possibly know about being brave?" 

Santana shrugs, halfheartedly. But she adds: "He does look even more like a deformed thumb when he does that."

Brittany laughs, a quiet, tinkling little thing. "Gross."

"Thanks, Britt." 

Santana keeps going softer, like a cookie unbaking, and Brittany loves her so much. 

She nods a little, so Santana knows she's one of the bravest people Brittany knows. 

Santana is scared, but being scared doesn't mean she isn't brave. Brittany remembers freshman year, when Santana took a deep breath on the second day of cheerios practice and flew, higher and higher and higher, even though the girls Coach Sylvester had assigned to be her base had dropped someone the day before. She remembers Santana staring unflinchingly at the screen during their Halloween horror movie marathon, even though Brittany could feel her terror in the grip of their pinkies. She remembers Santana's face after getting ice cream over the summer, when Brittany told her she was going to kiss her, car idling in Santana's driveway. 

When Brittany is sure Santana hears her, she leans forward, pressing a small kiss into the corner of her mouth. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Santana says, a genuine smile taking shape where Brittany's lips had just been. "Besides," Santana continues, squaring her shoulders, "it's not like anyone really heard him, you know? The hoarse, tone-deaf vibrations of his voice makes people's ears bleed, so."

Brittany hums. 

It's a fair point. 

 

 

Brittany thinks that's the end of it. 

Sure, she vows to find ways to make Finn feel like there's an itch he just can't scratch, but Santana washes off her face, fixes her makeup, and, bumps her hip against Brittany's as they walk back to English. Nobody looks at Santana weird the rest of the day, and she returns to her usual, wonderful self, if a little tired from all the feeling bad and crying. Which, see the first part about Brittany figuring out a way to make all of Finn's pens leak onto his hands whenever he writes. 

But that's not the end of it. 

Because Santana arrives for their troubletones performance looking like a vampire sucked all the blood from her body, and not in a cool, sexy, role-playing way. 

"Santana?" Brittany asks, grabbing her elbow and leading her into the corner, trying to shield her body from view with her own. The other girls are looking but pretending they're not, except for Sugar, who is just opening looking. Brittany doesn't like that, but she can respect it. "What happened?"

Santana's voice is a low drone, emotionless, as she recounts the commercial, her eyes trained on the ground. "Everyone is going to know," she finishes, finally looking up at Brittany. 

Brittany doesn't know what to say. 

She rubs Santana's arm, holds her hand, presses circles against her skin until Santana seems to be breathing again. 

"I'm sorry," Santana whispers. 

"Nothing for you to be sorry about," Brittany assures, punctuated by a tap of her thumb against Santana's hand. 

"You can break up with me. I'd break up with me."

Brittany's heart breaks. "Never."

Santana's bottom lip trembles, but there's no wetness in her eyes, only fear. Worse than last year. Worse than Brittany's ever seen. "I love you," she says, and it sounds like the swelling of music right before the bad thing happens in a movie. 

"I know." 

"Everyone's going to know," she repeats. 

Brittany nods. 

"About you, too," Santana clarifies. 

"I love you, too," Brittany says. 

She feels the tremors of Santana's terror in her own body, like they're traveling through Santana and into Brittany where their hands are linked, and she wants to take all of it, hold all of it in her shoulders, her stomach, her shins -- even if it means she can't dance -- so Santana doesn't have to feel it at all. Because Brittany is not scared of this, of all the love she has for Santana and of everyone knowing about it. She has never been embarrassed or ashamed the way Santana has been.

Brittany has dreamed about everyone knowing, about proudly holding Santana's hand without double-checking to make sure they're alone, about kissing Santana in the parking lot and not caring if anyone could look through the car windows, about getting to brag about being Santana's girlfriend when she hits a high note or lands a complicated handspring pass. But in her dreams, Santana was always just as proud and just as ready. 

Brittany knows Santana loves her. She knows Santana isn't ashamed to love her. She's proud now.

But she's not ready. 

"You don't have to do this," she says. 

"I'm going to." Santana's face hardens, but her eyes are wary. "We're going to beat Finn-- New Directions."

Brittany worries her bottom lip between her teeth, but she knows how Santana is, stubborn as anything, so she offers to help with her hair.

Santana hesitates, but she seems to realize Brittany needs be touching her, to make sure she's okay, a reassurance more for herself than Santana. 

"Okay," Santana breathes. "Okay." 

 

 

Finn's face in the audience, simple and carefree, makes Brittany feel hot and cold all over. It reminds her of the flu, and she thinks maybe this is what people mean when they say something makes them feel sick. 

He has taken so much away from her, and he's taken even more away from Santana. 

When Santana slaps Finn, Brittany feels the sting against her own palm. 

She normally doesn't condone violence, but she wishes she had hit him, too. 

When Santana pivots just enough to find Brittany, she's present and strong and brave, the life returned to her eyes. Her chest heaves, the hand that hit Finn curled into a fist. 

Something is wrong, but they're going to be okay. 

Brittany presses the phantom stinging in her own hand against her heart.


End file.
